Dear Mus Musculus

Dear Mus Musculus,

I can see how my kitchen might be such an inviting place. It's warm and cozy and I admit to not being as careful as I should about crumbs that fall into corners and under appliances. Surely you smelled the fallen sesame seed from that bagel I had the other day and just could not deny yourself the pleasure of a good meal. I cannot blame you for this. But now that you have had your fill, it's time to go. You have over-stayed your welcome.

Certainly there are other kitchens in my building that pose more attractive buffets for you to gnaw on? Can you not go pay them a visit? I think it is only fair to grace them with your presence. You might find a veritable smorgasbord of delights waiting for you. Go on now, go and see what else is out there. You owe it to yourself. Your life is oh so short, you cannot waste this opportunity.

Maybe my kind neighbors would even think you're cute and loveable and make you their pet. They would make you a little cage with a spinning wheel and feed you every day. Imagine that! Food served to you, not foraged, every single day! Go on now, go ask and see if they will adopt you. They just might. But I will not.

I don't mean to offend, dear Mus, but I must tell you that I find your presence is odious and impolite. I have been clear now about my true feelings; I will not make you my pet and feed you every day so you should pack your thinks immediately and take flight. O yes, I know you will look fondly back at those few moments we had together when I chased you around my kitchen. I am sure it was great fun for you. But the fun has come to an end and you should pack your things.

Goodbye Mus. Happy trails.

Terra